Mute
by Lovania
Summary: Draco is sentenced to ten years prison. But not Azkaban, no just a prison with human wards. Such luck he has - second chapter: Forever never, life in prison isn't fun. At least Draco isn't alone, but nothing lasts forever.
1. Babyboy

That's a story for my big sister. She lended me the guidlines. It's betaed, fortunatly for you ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters and not even the plotline ^^'

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****Mute – Babyboy**

**Chapter 1 – ****Babyboy**

A large, coarse hand dug into his upper arm, roughly pulling him towards his, still unseen, destination. He was manhandled through a doorway and into a long, colourless corridor. On both sides were little 'cages' – or so Draco thought of them.

They were little cages for dangerous, blood-thirsty animals. Like him.

He let out a short, dry bark that should have been laughter. Yes, he was one of the very bad ones. He was the scum under the shoes of the great and venerable war heroes – heroes like the honoured McGanister, who was too great and venerable to even spare scum like Draco so much as a glance. He hadn't even looked at him when he had decided Draco's future. When he decided a future in prison. Not a glance, not one look in the eye. The old man, the head of the Wizengamot, only stared into his documents, read from them in a monotone, yet disgusted, voice, like they held all the answers he needed to know. The criminal in front of him was scum. No wonder too, he was a Malfoy. He was just like his father. It would probably be best if the boy got the kiss, just like his father.

McGanister didn't say that, of course, but the whispers around thfe room did. It seemed like they didn't even bother to lower their voices. Or maybe Draco only had that impression because, other than their whispers, the room was deathly silent. Everything in the room, everything in himself. Except for the whispers. Except for the monotone and disgusted voice of McGanister.

It had taken Draco a few minutes to react when he was spoken to.

The prosecution was now read and the questioning had begun.

"Is your name Draco Malfoy?" the voice was louder than before, impatient. It's another man speaking, the questioner, probably.

"Yes."

"Son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy?"

"Yes."

"Who was your father?" another man. He sounded as though he were gloating.

Hadn't the questioner just said who his father was?

"He said it. Lucius Malfoy."

"You know why you are here Mr. Malfoy?" the questioner again.

"For being a Death Eater?" Draco murmured. The questioner looked at him coldly.

"You are charged with attempted murder of Albus Dumbledore and for negligently injuring a younger schoolmate of yours in the process, not to forget that you almost killed Ron Weasley, one of Harry Potter's best friends. You are also being prosecuted for bringing Death Eaters and a highly dangerous werewolf into Hogwarts, for facilitating the murder of Albus Dumbledore, and for numerous torturing and uncounted murders in the last year. What do you have to say to your defence?"

"I…"

Draco had a lot to say to this. He wanted to say that he hadn't killed anyone – that he never could and almost was killed because of it. He wanted to cry out that he had to torture these people, that he didn't have any option when standing in front of Voldemort. He wanted to tell them that he hadn't known Fenrir would come too, that he had been scared – scared of Voldemort, scared that he would kill his mother. He wanted to break down and sob out that he had been desperate to fulfil this impossible task, desperate enough that he would try anything even if it endangered other people too because he didn't know what else he could do. He wanted to say he was sorry and that he regretted it – regretted everything.

But nothing came out of his mouth. Just like always. Generations of politicians in his family, an aristocrat family at that, but he couldn't get out a word. Just like in front of Potter.

Draco had always been the one to pick a fight, to have a big mouth and pick on the other, but when it came down to a real face to face, a word fight, then it was always Draco to first draw his wand, always him who didn't know what to say, who ran out of witty retorts.

There in that hard dock, surrounded by Aurors, high politicians, Ministry officials, the Wizengamot, and anyone who wanted to see the last Malfoy sentenced, unable to move because of heavy chains on wrists and ankles so that he couldn't draw his wand – not that he had it, no it was still with Potter – he was defenceless, vulnerable, intimidated and speechless.

Draco had sat there, thoughts racing with everything he wanted – needed – to say, but not a word left his lips.

Not until later, walking through this lifeless corridor, he realised the lack of a defence attorney, who should have been there for exactly such a reason. Too late, though. Or maybe that man beside him was his attorney. This guy just hadn't said anything. It was Draco's own fault. He should have demanded a lawyer, but he hadn't, and so he got a defence counsel appointed by the court.

McGarister seemingly had taken Draco's motionless form as a silent confession of the reproaches. Sentence: 10 years in prison. Because of Draco's young age, he did not get into Azkaban, but a prison with human wards. Such luck he had.

******

Yes, such luck he had. Draco dryly though, pulling the thin, torn up blanket over his body. He winced as the movement shot stings of pain through his body. He pressed his teeth together and turned on his side on the narrow plank bed that wasn't quite long enough for him. He laid his hand on the bundle beside him.

Such luck he had, he thought sceptically, once again remembering.

Remembering walking the first time through the colourless, lifeless corridor.

He had tried to count the cells they passed but gave up after a while. Did he have the very last one or what? It looked like it. What does it really matter though?

His head felt heavy and so he bent it down. Every step brought him nearer to his cage.

He had been too young for Azkaban but old enough to be held responsible for something he did a lifetime ago. It seemed like a lifetime, at least. Truly, it had been only a year ago.

He had been sixteen. Old enough that he should have known better, right? But he hadn't.

He remembered the satisfaction and excitement he had had when he received his first task. He could finally show that he was grown up, could prove himself, follow in his father's footsteps, and all that naïve and childish rubbish. He hadn't known what it really meant to kill someone, what it meant to receive this task.

And when he eventually realised all the extent it took, it had been too late, and he had been stuck. He was stuck between either killing or being killed along with his whole family.

The cell doors grating on rusty hinges awoke him from his thoughts. He and his ward had finally reached the cage in which he was to spend the next ten years.

Not much to say here really. Another one of these three square metres wide and two metres high cages with a too-short plank bed and a small toilette that did not offer any sort of privacy.

The same rough hand pushed him again, though this time on his butt, and again he was shoved forward. He almost tripped but managed to catch himself before he fell.

He straightened up, as the doors closed behind him with a loud crash that echoed through the corridor.

Draco turned around, for the first time facing his ward. He wished he hadn't.

He looked straight in a dirty smirk and eyes with a strange gleam in them.

"No worries, you got all the time in the world to get to know every corner of this room," the ward spoke to him, leaning with his hands on the cell bars and laughing at Draco.

"And we're gonna get to know each other too."

With this the ward left and Draco was alone. At this time he hadn't understood what this meant – what awaited him.

He was to find out only a few days later. How many, he didn't exactly know. It's hard to keep track of time in such a tiny cell with nothing to do and only the blank, dirty walls to stare at. But he knew: it was shower day and therefore it must be Wednesday. He was told they would shower every Wednesday, and his ward had told him this morning he would get him for it.

Draco looked forward to it. His expectations weren't very high. It was probably one shower room for all the prisoners or at least many at a time, only cold water, if he was lucky there would be a cheap, ineffective soap, still dirty from previous uses. But this also meant seeing other people again and for once not the bare walls in his cell. In any case he longed for some clean water – cold or not.

He was already waiting when the ward finally came to bring him to the showers. Draco wondered a little about the time. It had been said they had showers in the morning, but he had already gotten lunch – nothing tasty at all, somebody surprised?

As they walked through the corridor they turned towards a door which seemed to be their destination.

To Draco's further bewilderment, he could see the cross-stripped backs of some prisoners, heading away from the door escorted by two other wards. Their hair dripped from water, darkening their shirts around the neck. They were already done?

But then Draco thought it through: they had to take showers in groups. They couldn't all fit in one room. There were way too many prisoners.

The shower room was how Draco had expected a common one, dark and not too clean either. He had to undress right after coming in. Beside the door were some already full baskets with dirty clothes. The ward stayed near Draco and watched his every move.

Draco still felt awkward and exposed – well he was – but he also was almost used to it as the other man kept a close eye on him all the time, even when Draco was settling his toilette business, and so the sentenced boy was not surprised to be watched once again. He kept telling himself that the man was only doing his job but still he couldn't help the impression the ward was watching him a little too closely and at the wrong parts, too.

As he took off his clothes quickly, Draco soon stood naked in the cold room. One thing was evidently clear by now – nobody was going to come. Draco was all alone in there, except for the ward.

With an inhibiting feeling, Draco tripped to one of the shower heads and turned it on. As he had supposed the water was ice cold and dropped hard on his unprotected skin.

Draco held his arms tight to his body in a gesture of awkwardness and defence, a useless attempt to cover himself, still he couldn't help himself.

He stood under the running water, soaking his water-darkened hair and wetting his body, in which he only let his hands wander up and down his biceps – his arms stayed tightly in an X-form in front of his chest. His head turned around again and again but he did not dare to fully turn around and facing the ward in this state of clothing – or lack therefore.

After some uncomfortable seconds – still alone with the ward – Draco looked for some of the cheap, ineffective soap. He did not have such luck, it seemed.

The sound of something hitting the floor and then slipping over it made the young man start. Looking down he discovered something dark and rectangular. Soap.

"Here you are. So you can get your sweet little arse all cleaned up. Get on with it. Pick it up."

The hard voice behind him held something alarming in it that made Draco shiver and his heart speed up – and it was not in any good way.

He slowly got in his knees to grab for the soap, swallowing hard around a big gulp in his throat. As his fingers went around the soap, a deep moan made him look up and freeze in his tracks.

The ward stood there just as naked as Draco himself, the only difference being that between his legs didn't hang anything soft and, from the cold, retreated, but something very swollen and hard. The ward's hand was wrapped around it, moving up and down. After some strokes he stopped and automatically Draco's look went upwards to the man's face, only to meet with the again gleaming dark blue eyes and a cruel, dirty grin.

Draco closed his eyes and pressed his teeth together, wishing the memory away.

It had been the first of many times. Some time he had gotten used to it – somehow. He had learnt to deal with the stings of pain coming from his behind – learnt how to sit and how to move so it would hurt the least. He also had learnt to minimize pain during It.

When he opened his eyes again he looked straight into a pair of blue ones. Baby blue, as of yet. They were darkening already and would become dark blue, just like those of the ward.

Draco instantly started back at this thought, which only succeeded in another explosion of pain. He brought his hand to his hurting stomach. The operation hadn't gone too well, nor had it been done properly. Of course not, it had to stay secret, after all. In this society, not everything may be right, but still a ward raping, abusing, and even impregnating his prisoner was not looked upon approvingly. So the ward was, of course, concerned about it not coming out.

A movement from the bundle shook Draco out of his musing and he focussed his attention back to the child. For a moment, he felt nothing. Nothing at all, he just watched.

The eyes were now pressed close, while its mouth was ripped wide open as if to scream and cry. It did cry. Tear after tear rand down the rosy, though by now red, cheeks. Still no sound came from the little boy. Mute.

Draco wanted a child from the ward just as little as the ward himself. What a surprise too. Who wouldn't want to have a baby out of daily rape sessions on top of it all?

When he first had the suspicion that he was pregnant he had cursed and prayed he would be wrong. He hadn't been.

So he had hoped an embryo wouldn't survive with such poor food and in the poor residence Draco lived in. He had wished it away, wished it couldn't survive without medical treatment and supervision – after all a normal pregnancy needed to supervised, male pregnancy was even more troublesome. But it had.

In the end, his only hope had been that he would lose it as a result of the abusing or during what the ward called sex, which never once stopped in those nine months. He hadn't.

The child survived, grew until it had been time for it to come out. The ward had brought some, not quite sound, medi-witches but then again they could be bribed into silence. It still hurt like hell, but the child had seemed absolutely healthy and untouched by the rough pregnancy. It looked like he needed to reconsider this belief. The child was mute.

Draco kept watching the innocent little child. His child. With a sudden certainty he himself couldn't understand, he knew his baby was cold and felt alone.

Draco got closer to the bundle, this time with careful movements, and laid an arm around it along with the thin blanket. His child was not to feel alone, he won't feel cold anymore. He wasn't alone – _they_ weren't alone.

Such luck he had, Draco thought with a smile as he felt his babyboy fall asleep against his chest.

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AN: Sooo, that's it for now ^^ Don't worry, I'm goint to explain how Draco got pragnent. If there are other questions, feel free to ask ^^


	2. Forever never

Hello you all ^^

That took some time, but finally the chapters on :D

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Mute

**Chapter 2 – Forever never**

The iron-barred gate rattled and grated on the stone floor, letting the light dance over the opposite wall. It closed with a loud crash behind Draco. He heard a laugh, but didn't pay any attention to the words that followed. He was focused on the movements under the blanket on the bed.

Slowly blond hair appeared from under it, followed by round, sleepy eyes and a small weedy body; it seemed almost too small for the boy's head. The child crawled towards Draco, then held up his arms, a happy grin on his face, though still sleepy.

Smiling, Draco sat down and took his son in his arms.

"Hey, my little bear," he whispered in the soft blond hair.

The boy was over a year old already, though he could not walk yet and looked a lot younger then he was. He would never speak, but he could feel. This Draco knew. In particular, the child had a distinctive feeling for his father's emotions. As of yet he didn't understand those emotions, but with time he would learn to. Draco feared that day. But for now, he only needed to prevent his son from feeling his weakness, his pain. Their connection was strong and so the blond had to watch out and be aware of his feelings. Somehow this was the only thing that kept him sane, that gave him the strength to stay alive. He had also learnt that he could cut off this connection when it grew unbearable by accident. He had done so once, it happened automatically, unwanted. When he had returned to the cell that day he'd found his boy had become a crying, pitiful mess. He had promised then to never let this happen again, to never cut it off again.

He was glad that the actions the ward was so fond of were done mostly outside the cell. They took place in the bathroom, in the ward's office, or often while Draco had 'work'.

The prisoners had to work here. Draco always received the tasks with as little human contact as possible, but the less contact he had the more he relished in every single talk with another human being. The people weren't overly friendly, actually they were downright rude, but Draco didn't care. He loved it. Only once he was allowed to join the others outside on what they call the 'playground'. Once in all the three years he'd been here. He had made the mistake of talking, joking with another and showing his joy too openly. The ward had pulled him back and the next two weeks Draco wasn't allowed to leave his cage at all, not even to shower. But that didn't mean he was left alone by the ward. No, it had been worse; almost everyday the ward had paid him a 'visit'. As much as Draco had tried, it was unavoidable that his son would notice something was off. It was a matter of time before his babyboy would understand what exactly was going on.

Annairo, his son. Sometimes Draco wondered how they had such a connection. His boy was sensitive to feelings and magic, that he knew. Still, was this the only reason? He had heard about it before, mothers claiming to stand in a sort of telepathic connections with their children. He hadn't been very interested these stories, and so he never really listened to them. He hadn't planned to become a mother, after all. This connection – it didn't feel like telepathy to him. It was only about feelings; they couldn't talk to each other in their thoughts, so maybe it wasn't the same thing. Or maybe that was because his babyboy couldn't speak. Draco talked a lot with him, and it seemed as if the little one could understand him. When the connection was strong they could even share images, and Draco could revive his good memories. Those times were comforting and devastating at the same time. On one hand they left him with a strong desire for his past days in freedom, on the other they distracted him from his present days in prison.

Draco let out a deep sigh and lay down slowly. It hurt to sit and it hurt to hold his son in his lap. In the last days the ward had grown more and more aggressive and violent. He wondered what was up. And hoped it would pass quickly.

***

The next two days the ward did not bother Draco, nor did the blond leave his cell.

On the third day, there were furious stamps to be heard, nearing the cell, while some iron bars rattled from hitting against them.

Hurriedly Draco packed his son under the blanket and put the thin cushion in front of the small body. He swallowed his fear down and tried to calm them both so he could get his child to sleep. When he heard the heavy keys he whished his child sweet dreams, then stepped back and as far away as possible to await the man.

He did not scream, nor did he cry like he had the first time. He would never cry again. He could feel the blood running down the side of his head. His hands and knees were cold from staying in this position on the floor and his side stung, he probably had a broken rip. The hand on his neck prevented any movement and let him feel vulnerable and helpless. His behind hurt from the penetrating. Every trust pulled at his muscles and the wet droplets on his thighs made him disgusted with himself.

All this he pushed to the very back of his mind. His look lay on the mountain of blanket on the bed. Under it his son lay asleep. He didn't know how, but somehow his little bear had been calm enough to fall back asleep. Draco closed his eyes, their connection was stronger than ever before and so, together, they dreamt.

"In an hour your new cellmate'll get here. So be a good little boy and don't bring me any shame."

The ward buckled up his belt while telling this with a cold smirk to the mess on the floor, then conjured a second plank bed on the other wall and left. Draco closed his eyes. He could feel the coldness from the floor sipping through him, mixing with a deep anticipation. One hour and he'd have a cellmate. His mind suddenly felt blank while he tried to comprehend this.

Draco pulled himself to the sink next to the little, dirty toilette. He managed to get rid of the blood, and then covered himself again – as much as he could cover with these ripped clothes that were left, at least. He would get a cellmate. Another human being. But how and why?

He was careful to move his side with the broken rip – hopefully it was just sprained – as little as possible. Sometimes the ward took the time to heal him. He wouldn't want his toy to break, would he? Or let alone have a permanent flaw in looks, no he wouldn't want that. Apparently, today wasn't one of these times, though.

A couple of seconds after Draco had sat down on the plank bed near to his still sleeping son, he could hear approaching footsteps again, this time from two pairs of feet. There he was, Draco guessed.

The man who was led into the small cell was tall and of a dark type. Dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes. He had narrow shoulders but, unlike Draco's, they were covered with hard muscles.

He did not spare Draco or the pile on his bed one look. He didn't seem to listen, when the ward gave his instructions. After the grate was close again, the man lay down on his plank bed, still not once facing his comrade, still staring blankly at the roof. As he was taller than Draco, he had even littler space on the bed and needed to bend his legs. No words were spoken, no looks shared. Eventually, Draco lay down himself, mindful of his son and fell asleep in a short while.

***

The next days Draco found out about the reasons why he suddenly got a cellmate. Not from the guy of course. The man was tough, just like Draco had always imagined a prisoner. Impolite, rude, and all about violence– though Draco didn't really know about that. He didn't talk much, but if he did it was either an order or an insult. It seemed that Steven – mercy on those who may laugh – had been in prison many times before, in wizarding and muggle ones alike. He was muggleborn and came from a poor family background. This time he was charged for burglary with, so Draco had heard, about twenty four months. From these two years he had sat through six months before his transfer in Draco's cell.

When Draco heard of the changes and going ons outside which had caused the transfer actions, he felt like receiving a message from a former life. Well, it probably was. Finding out about the reasons was a coincident. He had been working on his weekly task alone, as always, when one of the other prisoners joined him. Apparently, they wouldn't be doing their work alone anymore.

The man seemed as unused to this as Draco was, though there was also some kind of excitement in him and soon he couldn't hold in any longer. The fellow talked companionably to Draco, which still meant he was gruff and not very friendly. It was still nice.

Draco didn't know if he should be surprised or roll his eyes. All these changes were due to one person whose engagement was infamous back in Hogwarts already. And after freeing her precious house elves from slavery Mrs. Hermione Granger-Weasley turned her fixation to the British prisons. First of all she got rid of all the Dementors. While Azkaban was still a high-security prison, it was now warded mainly by the strongest barriers the ministry could master and their best wards. Only there the prisoners were put in their own cells. For every other prison she demanded at least one cellmate for everyone because human beings – and they still were humans – needed human contact. A helpful circumstance was probably that the prisons were flooded and they needed space anyway. Her greatest achievement was to call programs for reintegration of prisoners back into society.

Draco thought about this a lot. There were also educational offers for the reintegration. He'd never had the chance to finish his seventh year properly. Maybe he could make up for it? Maybe he could form a foundation for his future life after prison.

The next instant he let out a dry laugh. Who was he kidding? He could not imagine a life after prison. He couldn't even imagine ever getting out of here. Would the ward let him? No, never. Diving into his work to forget these thoughts, he barely heard what his co-worker was rambling about.

Returning to his cell he found his son soundly asleep, otherwise their little cage was empty. They'd shared the cell for a few days now; still the little boy hadn't been detected yet. Draco knew that it was only a matter of time. When both inmates were together in the cell they did not speak and Steven would only watch the roof or the window and the world outside. This was probably why he still didn't know about Annairo.

This night the inevitable happened. Annairo had a nightmare. He tended to have them a lot. Draco would always hold the fragile body close and caress the blonde hair, while silent tears ran down pink cheeks. He would comfort and whisper stories and calming words. Sometimes, if necessary, he would sing old child's songs he knew from his past.

He was aware of the other man not far away and kept a low voice when he calmed his son down. In all actuality it did not matter. The other prisoner would find out sooner or later and Draco preferred to be present when that happened anyway. Besides, being there for his son now was more important.

Annairo fell asleep fairly soon, after he calmed down enough. Draco stroked the soft hair. He could feel the gaze of his cellmate boring into him.

"A child?" It was something between a question and a statement.

Slowly Draco turned on his back to return the stare. Steven wore a quite startled and questioning look. Well, truly, who wouldn't be surprised?

Draco could see that he was about to ask, but before a word could leave his lips the grate opened. The ward came in to take Draco away. That was nothing new, it often happened. Draco threw his cellmate one last look before he left the cage.

****

Draco limped into the cell. His last encounter with the ward hadn't been pleasant. Alright, it was never pleasant, but this time his ability to walk was seriously affected even now, two days after. He sat carefully on his bed and shared a look with Steven. They still didn't talk much. There was no need to. Instead, they often sat or lay in brotherly silence, watching over Annairo.

The boy was playing on the floor when his father entered, and crawled to him immediately. He showed Draco one of his new toys. He held up a small round basket, where you put in the detergent when washing clothes. Draco threw Steven a look. The dark man had been assigned to washing duties today. He didn't meet his eyes as he was firmly concentrating on the little piece of wood in his hands, which he was forming with a jack knife. Draco wondered idly where in the world he had gotten that from.

Steven had picked up the habit of bringing Annairo little things to play with. Basically he brought anything that he could get his hands on. Sometimes, like the basket, they were not real toys, and sometimes he made them himself by carving. Once he gave Annairo an actual toy, a broken and old puppet, from who-knows-where. The little kid loved it, each single toy he was given and he played with everything cheerfully.

Annairo still couldn't walk and so he would crawl on the floor. Starting from Draco's bed he would make his way to Steven, would play with him, show him what he had found or he would curiously look what Steven was doing there. Then he would crawl back to Draco, show something else to him, and would play with him. Sometimes he would hold up his hands to be picked up on the plank bed just to climb down almost in the same second to get back to the other man again.

Annairo pressed the little white basket into Draco's hands then crawled back to Steven, who picked him up and placed him beside him. The dark man's lips curled into a sort of fond smile when he showed the child what he had made. Annairo looked at the little figure in wonder before he laughed and clapped his hands. He took it from Steven and held it towards Draco, clearly wanting to show it to him. Draco wouldn't have needed to feel the excitement of the boy through the bond. It was visible. Annairo almost jumped off the bed, only the big dark hands around him prevented him from falling. The little boy didn't seem to care, he just wanted to get as fast as possible to his father and show him his new toy. He unwound himself from the hold and started crawling. Obviously it wasn't fast enough for him. Instead of crawling on hands and knees he started to balance himself on his feet supporting himself with his hands. Draco had sat up and his wide eyes were fixed solely on the weedy body moments away from actually walking.

And then he did just that. Annairo pushed himself upright and took the last remaining steps on his own feet before he reached his father. His first steps.

Draco felt alighted. His son had made his first steps! He grabbed the boy under his armpits and whirled him around while jumping up from the bed. In this moment he didn't even feel his own soreness. Even Steven wore a sincere and unmasked smile.

The mood remained unchanged in a happy cheerfulness afterwards. Draco had sat down soon again, his body protesting vehemently against such blustery movements. Annairo kept changing sides and quickly discovering how to best stay on his feet and testing his limits. Steven watched that he didn't get hurt.

It was winter and outside snow was falling. From time to time a blow of wind let a cloud of snowflakes fall in their cell. Annairo was fascinated and, laughing, he stood under the window, trying to catch them. He was disappointed when no more snowflakes fell. Looking over his shoulders he pouted cutely until Steven walked over to him and scooped him up so the little boy could see the snow outside.

After a while there in front of the window watching and catching the fluffy white things, Annairo couldn't hold in a hearty yawn making both Steven and Draco laugh.

"Time for bed, little bear," Draco murmured softly while taking the boy from Steven. It didn't take long for the little child to sleep peacefully, and for some long seconds Draco just watched over him. The two men stayed in silence, each in their own thoughts, when Steven broke it.

"How come he is here? Why not in an orphanage or something like that?"

Draco chewed on his bottom lip, watching the peaceful face of his son.

"An orphanage? It would be better, wouldn't it? But it's not that easy. Do you really think he would have taken Annairo to an orphanage?" The blond man stopped struggling with himself to continue. To even think about it.

"He wanted to kill him. The ward… I begged him not to. He came in after the birth; he came in and wanted to take him away. I asked what he would do with him. He just said that he was going to kill him. Just like that. I refused to let him have my son. I offered him everything for exchange of Annairo's life." Draco let the meaning of the words hang in the air.

"I guess the ward saw the possibilities this brought. He demanded, no, he _demands_ absolute obedience. And he knows my boy is the only thing that keeps me sane and alive. I've tried to kill myself," he said it toneless, like something given. Maybe it was.

"Sometimes I'm not sure if it was the right thing to do. Sometimes I wonder… you know…" Draco stumbled for words. Once again he didn't know how to articulate himself.

"When I bought his life, because I guess I did buy it, I've kind of sentenced him to grow up in prison. Do you know what I mean?" He looked at Steven, hopeful and somehow at a loss. He was glad that his gaze met understanding black eyes.

"It wasn't done selflessly. I wasn't selfless. I did it for myself. As I said, he keeps me sane and the thought of losing him is unbearable to me. That's not selfless. It's selfish. I decided for him to live but, most importantly, I sentenced him to grow up in prison. It's not right. He shouldn't grow up in _here_. He should be outside; getting to know other children. I… we shouldn't be the only people he ever sees. He shouldn't be feeling what's happening to me, not even a little bit."

Draco broke up from his reverie and swallowed loudly. He couldn't continue.

Minutes passed, the night grew darker, as Steven asked the question that was due to come from the start.

"How? I don't suppose you took a potion?"

Draco snorted. "No, I definitely didn't take such a pregnancy-potion. Ever. I guess it's a good question though." He paused and stared at the roof. He'd never talked about it before. Well, with whom should he have been talking? The ward never asked.

"It has something to do with the potion. But more with its creation. Did you know that the first samples that were made in the fifties based on the transcripts of one of my ancestors? Probably not. Nobody knows." Again he stopped. He could slowly see his own breath in faint puffs. The night would grow cold. He began again:

"It all started hundreds and generations ago. You see, for several reasons the Malfoy main line have settled on having only one child each. Therefore they ensured that this child would not only be healthy and strong, physically and magically, but also that every first born child would be a boy. They needed a worthy heir, after all. You may be able to make out the little problem that emerged as time grew old. Generation over generation there was only one heir, all male. Naturally not every heir could possibly be straight. There always were those who would prefer a man over a woman. It wasn't so much of a problem as long as they still produced an heir. Well, I guess this held some obstacles if the touch of a woman made you vomit." Draco chuckled lightly at this. "Some centuries ago – it's said it was about the time when the Hogwarts founders lived – my ancestor Magnus Deprimi Malfoy had exactly this problem. It was rumoured his mother had abused him and maybe even more. True or not, he held an unbreakable hatred and disgust against everything female. He vehemently refused to marry one." Draco took a deep breath, feeling the cold air burning in his lungs. He let it out slowly, watching the thick white smoke spreading above his head.

"Magnus was the most talented potions master of his times. He made a deal with his family to prevent them from murdering him and also to maintain the Malfoy line. They agreed to give him approximately fifteen years to invent a potion that would change the man's inner anatomy so that he could carry a child sired by his lover.

Fifteen years passed and the results though enormous and world changing, were far from perfect. He hadn't the time to properly test the potion. The pressure was heightened on him and in the end he was pushed to take it regardless to any possible side-effects. It worked, surprisingly. He became pregnant. He gave birth to a seemingly healthy and normal son, though the birth was problematic and Magnus did not survive it. But the Malfoy line continued, outwardly normally and regularly." The blond Malfoy heir smiled as he thought about the tales, he had read in numerous books and had been told by relatives.

"Only three generations afterwards this assumption was crushed. The third descendent after Magnus, Leo, became pregnant after an orgy right before his wedding day. It was a huge scandal because the ceremony could not be held due to his constant vomiting that day. The sire was never found out and only an outrageous amount of galleons could keep the incident secrete. Contrary to Magnus, Leo survived and gave birth to twins. The younger killed the elder, by the way. Shows one of the reasons why it's better to have only one Malfoy successor." Draco shrugged dismissively while his gaze moved to the window as again a blow of snowflakes trickled in their cell. On the plank bed next to him Annairo moved and caught their attention, though he remained asleep.

"So, I take it the potion had side effects," Steven stated while his eyes stayed on the boy's face, only shifting to the figure at his side when he heard yet another snort.

"Oh yeah, it had. Apparently the potion and its magic now run within the Malfoy blood, which is held pure so thoughtfully," Draco continued with a hint of irony in his voice. And wasn't it an irony that this potion only had this rather unusual effect on the Malfoy line because they can't get away from this whole inbreeding culture to maintain the oh-so-great purity of blood?

"And with the potion the ability to receive a child is passed on to all Malfoy heirs."

"So, you have girl's bits?"

"Well, no not really. The first generations after Magnus actually did have the inner anatomic needed to carry a child. Never the outer parts though, which is reason why the birth is so problematic. It can only be done with a Caesarean. The inner organs are not intact like those of women either, only when a Malfoy slept with a man who… let's say shot his semen in his body. The semen would react with the magic of the potion and then be lead to some sort of imitated uterus." Draco threw Steven a look at that and barely could hold in his laugh. The man was grimacing and looked slightly ill. But he still listened attentively.

"The potion was in full power in the earlier generation and reacted faster with the semen. But with every successor the process became slower and after the inner organs also weren't inherited anymore it took even longer to get pregnant. I think that's the main reason why it didn't happen more often than a few times. You know, that a Malfoy beard a child. As said the potion runs in our blood and it will probably never fully vanish but… This means by now this magic which allows for men to carry a child only works when the semen comes in contact with the potion. And therefore it only works when it comes in contact with our blood." Draco stopped. His breath trembled imperceptible.

"But that means – "

"Yes. The reason why I could get pregnant in the first place was the circumstance that it was rape and not sex," Draco interrupted the dark man, his voice rasping.

He pressed his teeth together, then continued to explain, "Of course, another reason why so little Malfoys had male pregnancies was also that after this revelation – that we could get pregnant – every heir was forbidden to sleep with a man again or at least be bottom. Funny thing was the second side effect that was discovered." Draco laughed at the thought like he was telling a funny joke, mindful though not to wake Annairo.

"Somehow every Malfoy afterwards turned out to be gay. Only the last few generations were bi-sexual and the first one to be actually hetero since Magnus was my grandfather Abraxas. Well, as compensation my father was full out gay again." Draco's laugh became a smile as he remembered his father.

"Your father was gay?"

"Hell yes! My parents may have looked good together but they never were more than a good team, never more than friends. Still, they both loved me." Draco's voice died down at his last words and silence lay between them.

"And you? Are you?"

"I don't know," the blond answered, startled. He hadn't expected this question and he actually didn't know.

"I was engaged to a girl since I can remember, and she was my only relationship. We did start having sex in fourth year, and I only began to tackle the subject of sexuality in fifth. Then I got my task from Voldemort and all thoughts of sex were chucked out of my mind. Afterwards war broke out and then the trial. And you see, ever since coming here I have not been too taken with sex in general." Draco snorted bitterly. There was nothing more to say.

***

After their talk the two cellmates grew closer, what also didn't go unnoticed by the ward. He didn't become more violent or aggressive like he had when Steven moved in the cell, but there was a certain, silent cruelty in him.

It made Draco feel restless and edgy. He was yet to decide if there was need to be worried or not. If he did, he knew it wouldn't be long and he would work himself into a frantic panic. So he refused to worry.

Draco froze in his stance. The bond vibrated with confusion and weariness, however no real fright yet. This could mean everything and nothing. Whatever happened Annairo didn't understand it. Draco kept himself calm and tried to send reassurance through their connection while simultaneously slowing his own heart beat. Still, with every passing moment apart he longed to get to his babyboy.

When the ward came to escort Draco back, there was no way of denying his worry any longer. The ward was entirely too cheerful. He had done something to Annairo.

The cell seemed empty but Draco knew his son would be on the plank bed under the blanket. Pulling the thin linen off his little boy's body, wide blue eyes met his. Immediately he gathered his little bear in his arms and tried to make out any injuries. The child seemed all right, merely confused. Then the light catching on something small just above Annairo's heart caught Draco's attention. Around the small neck dangled a brown shining stone shaped like a tear and distinctly awakening the impression to be alive. Draco's first impulse was to remove it instantly of his son's neck.

"Wouldn't do that," interrupted the ward smugly. "Don't want to hurt him, would you?"

Without further explanations the ward stalked away chuckling, then laughing outright.

Draco traced the outlines of the stone. He wouldn't have needed any explanations. He wouldn't have removed the necklace either. The Malfoy heir recognised the pearl for what it was. A brown 'Domestic Pearl'. They were very rare and very effective in their use. Certain pearls are equal to certain sorts of spells, only much stronger. The brown pearl is best used for any kind of secret keeping. Whether it's binding the tongue of someone who you don't want to talk or something akin to the Fidelius charm, the brown pearl can provide every variety to keep your secretes hidden. Usually though, it does involve the life of someone.

Draco smiled down at his little bear who grinned back happily. Draco had calmed his son with an assurance he did not really feel.

Few days later the iron bars to their cage opened. For a change the ward hadn't come for Draco but to take Steven away. Forever.

"Good news. You get outta here. Some nice new cell in some city in the North is waiting for you," grunted the ward condescendingly.

He spelled heavy chains on Steven's wrists and ankles and manhandled him out. Little less than after a year Steven was transferred into another prison.

Before the dark man could fully leave the cell however, the ward stopped him by gripping his shoulder in a rough hand and with a flick of his wand he tightened the chains uncomfortably. Steven's back straitened automatically and he turned his head slightly, waiting for whatever the ward had to say.

"You'd betta not say a word_._" The last words were accommodated by a flicker of the blue eyes to Draco and Annairo and followed by a cruel laugh. "Would be a shame if the short one would have an even shorter life, wouldn't it?"

Draco hugged the little boy firmly. Absently he thought that it may be too tight, but he couldn't help it. His insides went cold. He was all too aware of the ward's words meaning and his last look directly at the brown pearl. The sheer possibility, the sheer hinting on…

His grey eyes sought out the tall man and pursed into his. Steven had frozen in place as well, seemingly not breathing anymore. When their gazes locked, Draco could see that Steven would never tell. He would never endanger the boy's life, this boy who had grown into his heart.

A push between his shoulder blades and Steven stumbled forwards and the iron grate fell close behind him with an echo. Soon only harsh words and slowly fading footsteps could be heard. Like he had appeared in their lives, just as much he seemed to vanish again.

Draco leaned back at the cold stone wall with a smile on his lips. He didn't know why or how, but somehow he knew that no, this was not for forever. Yes, he had seen it in Steven's eyes. This was no farewell, they would meet again. He would see the rude and tough, dark man again.

* * *

I would be soo happy for some critique here!! what should I do better? what should I change?? thanks for any reviews!

love =)


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